


Just Overwhelm Me

by katherineerosee



Series: Heaven Help You [1]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poetry, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:32:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6598750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherineerosee/pseuds/katherineerosee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neptune could never wash away your sins, could never rinse the carnage from your fingers. But he, <i>he</i>, would wipe the blood from you with his white, white heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of an experimentation - aka, I don't generally like writing in second person, but I feel like this collection kind of needs to be in second person perspective in order to come across the way I want it to. I know it can be vague at times, I hope it's not too difficult to follow! 
> 
> Also, this was inspired by this [post](http://anakins.co.vu/post/140416034743/reasons-not-to-kiss-him-for-aj-happy)

I

You were never raised to love tender.

Once, hands torn soft with sand caressed your hair and face, filled you with warmth unlike the arid burn of twin suns.

Once, hands scraped raw by bladed clubs lifted in violence and beat you down.

Once, two strange men appeared and took you away.

It was a peculiar thing, leaving all you’d known. The bitter memories, fear and rage and shaking sorrow buried deep, deep, beneath the sand you so despised, deep beneath the body of your––

––mother. Oh, your lovely mother. The one who taught you to fight and scream and cry and _feel_.

Those things were washed away, eventually. Like blood and gore and fury into a rushing river. Let your emotions free into the air, they said. You can’t let your feelings, your _rage_ , control you, they screamed. No more humanity, they mourned.

You were human before you left, _human_ before you were trained to know better.

And back then –– when physical sensation wasn’t your sole judgement, when passions roiled in you like oceans and oceans of detestable _sand_ , you felt happiness, in your naivety, happiness and hatred, and fury and fear, loathing, sorrow, compassion and empathy and _humanity._

But you never – never truly knew love. Love lead to hate, and perhaps that was the only thing you and the republic agreed on.

You were never raised to love tender. And you knew better than to learn of it. 


	2. Chapter 2

II

You watched in awe at the power it held over you.

Had you not learnt –– had you not suffered? This sweet, sweet agony that you avoided as a plague, that you buried deep in shells, layers, of plain robes and braids, discipline and respect for any and all.

It was trembling, breaking in your palms and your heart like spider-webbed crystal, and you felt yourself tremble too, as you laid eyes on him.

Was he at fault? Was he – the one who had taken you and held you at arm’s length for so, _so_ , long, before pulling you in, tight, tight, against his chest, between his ribs, before his spine – the one who had done this to you? _Inflicted_ this on you?

Surely he wouldn’t. One so ingrained in his teachings, one so good and so pure and so _right_. Surely he wouldn’t torture you so.

Not willingly.

Never.

–– _Never_.

But even if he didn’t know, couldn’t feel the ripples in your shared bond like soft ebbs of tender misery upon a shore, it was no matter. He still stood over you, a comforting shadow you hid within like a trusted cloak. All you do when he is near is cower, tremble, despair over the bruising chains on your ankles and wrists and neck and spine and heart.

It’s dangerous, the power it holds over you. The power he holds over you.


	3. Chapter 3

III

Your hands have always been covered in blood –– there has never been a time in which you could see the skin of your palms, you’re sure.

You’re too good at violence, you decide, when the rush in your ears dim and the bright, bright light that he is, the bright, bright light that is battle, drips from the corner of your eye like tears.

Will all Great Neptune’s tides wash away this blood? You think not. You are not so honoured to own a heart so white. As white as snow, as white as his. You wonder, at times, if you are of the same species as these. These ones that hold control in their palms, never slipping through their fingers, like blood through your own.

What else would they be? What else would you be? But again, it is no matter. You fight, you rage, you slaughter in your weakness, in your darkness, and he forgives. He is too good at forgiving, you decide.

He wraps his cloak over your shoulders, and the feeling is raging, broiling under your skin, flaring like opened blood vessels where he touches you. You catch alight, burning in yellows and greens and blues and purples, sodium, barium, copper, potassium.

You are savagery personified, he, compassion encompassed.

Shape without form, shade without colour.

A paralysed force, gesture without motion.

Neptune could never wash away your sins, could never rinse the carnage from your fingers. But he, _he_ , would wipe the blood from you with his white, white heart.

Your hands are not of his colour, and you shame to wear a heart so scarlet.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

He places a hand upon your shoulder, and the monster stirs in your chest.

It’s always been there, you know that. Purring in your throat when you could glimpse at his emerald and periwinkle eyes, clawing at your ribs when his focus shifts from you, growling in ancient, inhuman rage when anyone _dared_ to hurt him.

You worry, at times, of the likeliness of someone else hurting him beyond repair. The likeliness of you hurting him beyond repair. After all, you’ve heard what happens to monsters. And denial is not something you allow yourself to live in.

A beast, you are.

Inhuman, you’ve become.

But loving?

Loving is something you learnt –– something that you cursed and shook your fist at, something you refused and despised and ignored, but it was relentless. He was relentless, in his own ignorant, well-meaning way.

You never wanted it, you never _needed_ it, but he whispered in your ear and soothed your heart like balmy rain in the coldest months, and suddenly he had tugged it out of you, pulled a bandage from your skin in one, painful swoop.

You’ve heard what happens to monsters. And you’ve heard what happens to those who love them.

The monster is stirring again, as his back is turned to you.

You realise the likeliness of you hurting him, and you _ache._


	5. Chapter 5

V

Your hands, they don’t know how to be gentle.

Your fingers twitch and shake in longing, in sweet, sweet love, and you wish, for not the first time, that you could hold him.

But you, you ––

–– you would crush him between your blood soaked fingers. And you know you would.

Again, you remember, that you refuse to live in denial.

Like fine china, fragile glass, stretching silk, he would crack and rip and shatter in your closed palm, and you would never forgive yourself when he would. Like he would.

You could never hold him tender, even when you wanted nothing more.

Your fingers curl and twist and break, bloodied shards digging into your palms until you carve lines there, until gore and shredded flesh dripped from your clenched fists like dew from a leaf. Your hand feels emptier than it ever has been. Than it ever will be.

Even the cool metal of your beloved weapon, your conduit of violence, does not fill the empty. 

Would he? You wonder.

If those accursed rules, the ones you put in place, the ones you didn’t, were never there, would he be there, filling the empty? Would he cover the void in his robes, much like he does to you?

Whatsoever you ran from, became your life.

Whomsoever you cradled, you put to death.

Your hands cannot be gentle, they can only kill.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

Will you treasure this when you fall –– fall beneath the surface?

You stare down into his eyes, malachite and sapphire, azure and mint, cerulean and ––

Will you remember this when you inevitably fall? Because fall, you will. You know. And somewhere deep down, deep, deep down ––

He knows too. And he hates it. You hate it. But it is an inevitability.

You were foolish, believing you had buried your emotions. Believing that the monster clawing at your insides was locked safely in a cage, in the pits of hell, drowning in the river Styx.

Will that be the death of who you are now? This ravenous, carnivorous beast? One fuelled on passion, strength, power, victory, freedom. Will this be your grave?

You stare around the serenity of the grounds, fauna, flora, cloying air, beauty, _peace_. Is this what he spoke about, within their meditation, within their harmony? You think that you could remain here, with him by your side for an eternity, and yet still yearn for more, long for time, selfishly.

You wonder what will destroy you first, the leviathan curled beneath your skin, or the vice grip he holds on your bleeding heart.


	7. Chapter 7

VII

Hurting him – breaking him, inside, outside, _everything_ – hurts you.

You can feel the crinkle of his windpipe through your bond. The gasps of air that escape his bloodied lips shatter your bones, crawl up your spine in white hot agony.

The last dregs of your sanity slip from you as you battle him, as he hurts you, as you hurt _him_.

How could you do it? The phantom aches you had, the mere thought of this scarring you, and yet you continue. You slash and slice and tear yourself and him apart with each successive swoop.

You feel yourself falter, shudder in your resolve –– what were the beast’s whispers?

_You must. You must. For him. For you._

It made sense once, why not now?

You look in his eyes and know, if you had been him, and he, you, it would have never made sense to him. He is ingrained in his code, in his serenity, harmony, peace, knowledge, in ways you never could be. Never were.

You love him more for it.

Such purity –– the white, white heart of a white, white knight ––

–– should never be touched by the likes of you. You stain and smudge and sicken.

You know. It does not make you any less selfish.

You want, you need, you love, you hate.

You let him win – consciously or not – and he cuts you down.

Him hurting you, you can stand. Never the other way. Never again.

And you lose yourself completely.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII

He loved you too.

Oh –– _oh_ how he _loved_ you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it too vague? Too fucking weird? Idk. I'm sorry.


End file.
